The 24th Hunger Games
by OwlLynx22
Summary: Wren Grayfeather likes to think, she's never really been good anything but wondering, however when she is reaped, for the 24th Hunger Games she anticipates death. But when her fellow tribute is reaped she is put in a situation she never expected. I OWN NOTHING EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS, ALL RIGHTS GO TO SUZANNE COLLINS WHO IS THE ORIGINAL CREATOR OF THE IDEAS AND STORY OF THE HG.


"_**Your female tribute from District 7, Wren Grayfeather!"**_

_**No.**_

_**Those eight words have just sent my world crashing into oblivion. **_

**Here are some things you should know about me;**

**My name is Wren Grayfeather. **

**I am 15 years old.**

**I live in District 7.**

**My mother is Robyn Grayfeather and my father is Thrasyus Grayfeather, they, like the rest of my family including myself, are lumber workers.**

**I am the eldest of five children.**

**I have just been reaped for the 24****th**** Hunger Games.**

I feel a lump collecting at the base of my throat and my heart feels as if it is ready to beat right through my sternum and explode from my chest. My face matches the pallor I am already imagining which covers my coffin and masks the horrific manner of my eminent death. I've always thought that it is rather ironic that pallor are white, for death is always portrayed as a dark and depressing matter, however we cover our death with the same color that, before the rebellion, was a symbol of peace, a symbol of innocence. That very color, worn by babes at their christening and worn by the brides of days gone bye. I guess I think it's ironic because of the horrors of the deaths that many are now suffering.

I am shaken from my thoughts when the girl beside me, Birch I think her name was, elbowed me, in which I supposed was to be in a gentle friendly manner, but when her malnourished elbow came into contact with my protruding ribcage, actually hurt quite a great deal. As pain shot through my body, my green eyes focused upon the stage where Allegra, our escort from the Capitol awaited, harlequin nails outstretched, waiting to escort me to my death. _Left, right, left, right _I forced my feet to move my raven hair, which had been scraped back from my face, contrasted greatly to my continually whitening face. My palms were sweating and my whole body was shaking. _Come on Wren, you can do it left, right, left, right. You can't break. Not yet. Not ever. _As I march towards the podium, I ponder. I do that a lot. My mother says that when I think the light in my eyes fades and I sit so still that, if someone who was not accustomed to my habits was to look at me they could swear that I was dead and some demented person had taken my corpse to a taxidermy to be preserved and has displayed me in their home. My legs are moving out of muscle memory.

You know when a woman says that the walk up the isle at her wedding is the longest walk of her life? Well she quite evidently has never had to walk through a column of people to her death.

At the moment I'm wondering about my death, how will I die? Will I be shot through the brain with an arrow? Will I be stabbed through the heart with a spear? I am not particularly fast, nor am I a good fighter. I've always been slight and short, I'm just about large enough to work in our districts average profession, we are well known for our lumber working. My death is almost guaranteed. Will I die in the blood bath at the Cornucopia? Or will I die from something worse than a quick running through with a knife or a flying axe? Drowning? Starving? Freezing? Or worse, will I perish by the hand of the death I fear most?

Burning

I have always been terrified of fire, even when I was a little girl something about the power and destruction one little flame can cause has always made my blood run cold.

I imagine my death,

_I'm lying down, nestled in the branches of a tall oak tree. I am in a deep slumber and that's when I smell it. Smoke. My eyes, with their shamrock green iris' and rings of gold around the pupil, snap open. I see a deathly shadow of grey rise in an elegant cloud. Higher and higher and higher it goes my death inching closer and closer. I feel my blood turn to ice as the leaves around me begin to transform into orange flickers of their former olive and mantis leaves. Fire begins to lick at my ebony tresses and work their way from the bottom of my hair, at the base of my spine. Strand by strand, lock by lock of my mane of midnight disappeared, leaving grey shadows of its former beauty. The flames have clasped their deathly grip upon the laces of my boots, the cuffs of my sleeves, the collar of my shirt. I'm gasping for air, my lungs are on fire. My limbs are moving on pure adrenaline batting at the amber, desperately trying to create some kind of relief from this heat. I'm going to die. My once lush green eyes reflect the tawny shadows, which surround me. My eyelids flutter shut. I'm light headed. I give in to the darkness, which threatens to overcome me. I feel my life slowly ebbing away…_

"_**Your male tribute from District 7, Branch Calloway!"**_

I am shaken from my thoughts by the announcement of the male tribute, my "partner" in the arena. (Somehow I had managed to subconsciously maneuver myself and I successfully mounted the steps onto the raised platform.) They say partner, however, we all know that every tribute is out for themselves they, I mean we, won't be able to have any relationships with anyone, even if we make it out alive. It is one of the sacrifices of being a victor. Family, friends, lovers are a weakness and if you want to survive the games and live your life afterwards, you cant trust anyone, not even your fellow district member.

I look over at the male tribute who is slowly edging towards me shuffling slowly towards Allegra's outstretched fingers. _Branch Calloway, where have I heard that name before? _

And then it hits me like a ton of logs.

**Branch Calloway, the boy who saved my life.**

I watch him limp slowly but surely towards us, filthy blond hair hanging in shaggy clumps in his eyes, well eye. The other eye had been lost during the accident. The accident, which, was to determine both our futures. His one eye though, was the most stunning shade of silver. You could get lost in those beautiful swirling gray orbs which seemed to reflect the storm clouds which hung over the forests of district 7. He was of course unable to work as, not only was he missing an eye, but he was missing an arm and his leg from the knee down. I had not seen him in the district since that fateful day at the lumber mill. I looked at him and the sadness and regret that had been building up in my heart for 5 years threatened to pour from my grassy orbs and flow down my malnourished features and to continue to flow until they would spill no more water and my blood would begin to grace my features as it should have done half a decade before, in the place of Branches blood.

Branch hobbled over and as I reached out to shake his hand our eyes connected, green against grey, forest against tempest. My body moved faster than my brain for a change and I embraced him for all I was worth, he was slightly taken aback to say the least but quickly rewarded my efforts of reconciliation with a rather awkward one armed hug around my skeletal torso.

We walked side by side into the justice building, snatching a glimpse behind us at the freedom, well partial liberty, we would never again have. As we waited to say goodbye to our families I had time to think about the accident that happened half a decade ago and what had happened to my relationship with Branch. I made up my mind. I shall protect Branch for all I am worth and I shall earn his forgiveness even if it is the last thing I do, which it probably will be. If he dies, I die first.


End file.
